


What Knighthood's For

by mllelaurel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Depictions of slavery, Felix Fraldarius Would Make a Terrible Therapist, Flashbacks, Gen, References to Past Underaged Sexual Abuse, The So-Called 'Annexation' of Duscur, Verdant Wind route, Yuri's Shitty Rowe Past, something like friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25530991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mllelaurel/pseuds/mllelaurel
Summary: After Aillel, Yuri comes to terms with killing an old mentor. Felix is there for the fallout.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc, Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc & Gwendal (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	What Knighthood's For

**Author's Note:**

> Mind those content warnings, folks. Nothing's graphic or even on-screen, but the psychological effects are felt throughout.

“What’s wrong with you today?” Felix grumbles as Yuri lets another strike whip past his guard. Yuri curses under his breath and wonders what he’s doing out here at all. It’s five in the morning. Most people are still asleep after yesterday’s battle. 

He’s got lots of excuses for why he’s not among their number. An aching injury. The unfamiliar beds of the Daphnel barracks. Adrenaline. That’d be the one to go with if he’s smart. Close enough to the truth to be the perfect lie. 

Instead he raises his sword for another bout. Felix is a good opponent. Smart, obsessed with his craft, hungry for a challenge. Kicking his ass all over the yard this morning, which is far from the normal case. Yuri’s speed is usually more than enough to outmatch him—when he’s not distracted. 

Felix has already moved on, eyeing Yuri’s stance for an opening. Yuri knows he should keep his mouth shut. He’s normally so good at it, picking his words with care, only letting out the ones which best serve him. But tonight—today—everything’s upside-down. He’s exhausted, jittery, mental battlements worn down to stubs. Maybe that’s why he says, “I killed a decent man yesterday.”

“We’re in a war,” Felix says, like Yuri doesn’t know that already. The condescension sets his teeth on edge. 

“So it doesn’t bother you?” he asks, ice-cold.

Felix scowls. “Of course it bothers me. None of those idiots should have been at Aillel to begin with. Are you going to fight or not?”

Yuri darts in before he’s done talking. Felix hisses as the wooden blade strikes his wrist. “Good,” he says. “You’re finally done fucking around.” His eyes narrow. “Show me what you did again.” 

“What’ll you give me for it?” Same old song. Felix is fun to needle—in the sense that he doesn’t react at all.

“I’m sparring with you aren’t I? It’s practice for both of us.” 

Same old song, same old Felix. Yuri sighs dramatically and pivots, slower this time. Felix doesn’t bother dodging, mirroring the motions instead, steely-eyed and watchful. 

“That’s Gwendal’s style,” he says. “The old Gray Lion. I’d bet on it.”

Yuri laughs, bitter. “Of course it is. Who do you think taught me?”

***

Yuri sneaks outside before it’s light, through the hall, past the entryway and toward the stables, where it smells like horses and not the stifling air of the bedroom. He’s not thinking of escape, or anything in particular at all, but Gwendal’s booming voice still makes him jerk in place. Gotta work on those reflexes. He’s better than this, calmer in a fight, and the opulent Rowe estate is nothing next to the mean streets he’s used to. 

“Oi! Enough with the sneaking around, you cur.” 

No chance of forgetting his place here, Yuri thinks. “And here I thought the stables were a proper place for a dog.” He folds his arms in front of his chest. “What, afraid I will steal something?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you,” Gwendal says. There’s no heat in it. No real accusation. It’s like his role here is to chew Yuri out, and he’s never learned to be a very good actor. 

“What do you want?” Yuri asks. He’s a Rowe now after all. He can afford to be haughty—he’s paid coin enough for it. 

Gwendal harrumphs. “Make yourself useful,” he says. “See that stack of lances?” Yuri spares them an unimpressed glance. Wooden toys, nothing more. A new delivery from the carpenter for the knights to whack one another with. Why they were left here the Goddess only knows. Yuri doesn’t care enough to ask. “Grab those and follow me,” Gwendal says. 

Well, fuck. Not like Yuri has anything better to do. The stupid things are bigger than him, but he’s stronger than he looks, and the thought of this boulder of a man thinking him a weakling seems unbearable today of all days. He gathers up the lances and trots along. 

Gwendal leads them to the racks by the training yard, where he takes the lances himself and arranges them. “You’ll be no good with one of these, I wager. Too scrawny by half. Grab a sword.”

I’ve stuck my first knife in a man’s belly at age twelve, Yuri wants to tell him. You want me to play with sticks? But admissions of murder and assault won’t win him any favors here. 

“Grab a sword, you little shit,” Gwendal tells him. “I won’t ask again.” 

Funny how many of the assholes here refuse to call him by name. Funny because the joke’s on them. Not like his mom doesn’t know the sort of crap he gets up to, but he’ll die before he brings the law down on her head. ‘Yuri Leclerc’ isn’t his real name, though he’s gotten used to having it mean him by now. He was especially glad of the pseudonym when he heard of Rowe digging around for him. Special Crest. It’s the sort of thing that gets you noticed, but Rowe will never find his mother through him, nor his old neighborhood, nor the grave where they buried the man who saved Yuri’s life. 

Rowe, now _he’ll_ call Yuri by name. Every chance he gets, wheedling and enticing, making use of that oldest trick. Call a man’s name and he’ll think you like him. He’ll do what you say. Do it too much, though, and the man might notice. 

What a fucking idiot, Yuri thinks, and his fingers clench around a wooden hilt. 

Gwendal picks a blade of his own. “Come at me,” he says. 

Yuri rushes him, like he’s a rough who thinks he’s cornered some easy alley prey. The Crest crackles within him, and he shows off, lightning fast and just as deadly. 

Gwendal blocks him with a rock-solid strike, shoving him back hard enough to send him reeling. Gray eyes assess him. “No training at all. Just as I thought.” 

Who needs training when you’re faster than your opponent? Yuri thinks. Except the old fart’s faster than him. Humiliatingly so. 

“I saw you coming before you even twitched,” Gwendal says. “You’re predictable. You’ll get better or it’ll be the death of you. Again.” 

He’s still stiff and a little sore from last night. It shouldn’t be enough to mess him up here. And if it is, he’ll fight through it. Better that than the thought of Gwendal knowing what he’s been getting up to and with whom. 

They’ll all probably know by day’s end, he thinks dejectedly. With how grabby Rowe’s been. With how satisfied he’s going to strut. Got what he wants at last, so now it’s time to crow about it. 

His blade cracks off of Gwendal’s gauntlet. “Better,” the old man says. “Now actually start thinking about where you put your feet. Here, I’ll show you.” 

He reaches for Yuri’s shoulder, and Yuri doesn’t think, elbows up, fighting and scrabbling to get away. Must look crazed from the outside. Rabid rat has finally snapped. Like as not, he’s in for a beating now. 

Instead, Gwendal takes a step back. “Mirror me,” he says, without acknowledging Yuri’s outburst. It’s like it never happened. 

This is so stupid, Yuri thinks, heat rising behind his eyelids. Not like it was his first time, nor even his first time for payment of whatever sort. Not like his mother hasn’t protected him from leering customers asking ‘how much for the kid?’ since he was seven or eight. Why now, why this bullshit? 

Why does this of all things make him want to scratch his skin off? 

Breathe. Don’t think. _Focus on Gwendal’s feet, focus on your own. Plant your body where it will not be moved, then move it when you decide._

Rowe sure as shit thinks he was a virgin until last night. It’s more appealing that way. Make him fancy himself the enchanter and Yuri the moth drawn helplessly to his flame. Wide eyes ain’t hard to fake. Faking’s easy. Sometimes Yuri thinks it’s all he does. 

“Breathe,” and this time it’s Gwendal’s voice instead of the one in Yuri’s own head. 

Yuri breathes. 

“Pivot from the hip,” Gwendal tells him, and they’re off again. 

***

“I didn’t know you were from Western Faerghus,” Felix says. 

Yuri shrugs. “Everyone’s from somewhere.” He doubts Felix _Fraldarius_ would even remember there _was_ a Western Faerghus if not for the battle just behind them. 

“It…” Felix chews on his words. “It doesn’t make you a traitor. And it doesn’t mean you belong to the Empire.” 

Yuri scoffs to hide his surprise. “Of course it doesn’t. Look who I’m fighting for.” Not that there’s technically a Faerghus to betray anymore, but technicality will never hold entirely true for people like him. Or for those like Felix, who claim not to care, yet burn with it so fiercely and so awkwardly. 

“Annette’s family is from there,” Felix says. Annette’s a friend of his, Yuri’s pretty sure. He’s softer around her at any rate. Yuri barely knows her, though she seems like a nice girl. 

“Dominic, right?” Count Dominic’s decent enough as lords go. Practically Eastern, per the stick up his ass, and the admittedly genuine care he shows his subjects. Dominic may be with Cornelia, Rowe and the others, but Yuri suspects it’s fear that drives him more than anything else. Small holdings, not a lot of men. His neighbors would grind him to a pulp if he didn’t softshoe around them. “She in trouble with them?”

“No idea.” Felix sticks his hands in his pockets. “Not like any of us are still talking to our families.” 

“So you haven’t asked her,” Yuri guesses.

Felix looks down. “We all know why we left. Doesn’t matter beyond that.” 

What were Felix’s reasons? Yuri wonders. He doesn’t look like a man with a lot to run from, but who knows? Maybe he’s a better actor than Yuri takes him for. 

***

Every summer, Rowe visits his old friend Kleiman to the north. This time, he takes Yuri with him. His daughter throws a tantrum she’s way too old for when she finds out. Elisabeth Rowe’s made no secret of hating Yuri’s guts. It’s almost fair. He’s the upstart ensuring that she—Crestless girl that she is—will never see her father’s inheritance. 

If she had half the brains the Goddess gave a noa fruit, she’d see that for the lie it is. The whole purpose for Yuri’s so-called adoption lies in him getting whored out to the richest family desperate for unique Crest blood Rowe can swing. Yuri has kept him distracted enough to hold off marriage contracts, but who knows how long that will last. In the meantime, he’s got all of Daddy Dearest’s attention and allowance, and Elisabeth is pissed. 

Give her a little of her father’s ‘attention,’ Yuri thinks. See how she likes it. His stomach twists immediately at the thought. No. Fuck. Even he’s not that much of a dick. There’s screwing some kid off the streets no one gives a shit about, and then there’s turning the same on your own daughter. Elisabeth may be a vapid, spoiled brat, but she doesn’t deserve that. 

So here he is. Another noble’s estate. Fuck him if he’s not getting jaded by the architecture. At least Kleiman, a pompous, heavy-jowled man, seems set on ignoring him. Yuri’d been half-dreading this would turn into a sharing with your buddies sort of situation. 

The nobles talk shop as their knights posture in boredom, and a few days in, Kleiman decides to take them all on a tour of his holdings. 

From what Yuri’s heard, Kleiman’s corner of Faerghus didn’t use to be Faerghus at all until earlier this year, his estates a tiny speck abutting Duscur. Now there’s no Duscur anymore, and Kleiman’s the king of all he surveys. Cheerful foliage along the road hides the burnt-out husks of wooden homes. Easy enough for genteel eyes to overlook. Shame Yuri’s gentility is as fake as his title. There’s been a ransack here. Hard to pretend otherwise unless you’re really trying. 

The once-local Duscuri are all gone. Back in Arianrhod there’d at least been the occasional traders, scenting the air with their sharp, fragrant spices, their accented voices sombre and melodic. Those traders must be gone now as well. Not a brown face in sight until they reach the mines.

Of course, Yuri thinks. Why stop at taking the land if you can take the people too? At least those you don’t bother killing. 

The working conditions are horrific. Worse than he’s heard of the docks along the Rhodos coast. Hollowed ribs and papery lips tell of scant food and water. Torn clothes and welted backs bear the marks of a bullwhip. The air around them sloshes heavy as pea soup, reeking of fear-logged sweat.

He spins around at the crack of flesh on flesh and sees a girl about his age sprawled in the dirt. Her thick ash-colored hair falls ragged around her face. Her eyes, when they meet Yuri’s, are hard and brittle as shale. The foreman who struck her is already walking away, all smiles as he spies his master and the opportunity for advancement. 

No one’s watching him as he approaches her, or so Yuri thinks. She looks away, impassive, as he drops to one knee next to her. He can only imagine what she’s thinking. Look at this piece of shit. Another perfumed, bleeding-heart nobleman, ready with a hand up and a kindly word. Ready to leave her rotting here, more like, assuming he’s not looking for ‘gratitude.’ He’d spit in that noble’s face if it were him. Her restraint is better. 

Yuri doesn’t insult her by smiling. Just says, “look down,” and when he stands back up, there’s a knife by her feet. Not a fancy noble dagger but a shank, sharp and deadly, the kind he’s never lost the habit of carrying. The next time he looks, the knife is gone, shuffled under her stained, patchy dress. 

“Zara, come on.” An older woman pulls the girl to her feet, care overriding her desire to give Yuri a wide berth. He gets out of her way as fast as he can, suddenly clumsy. The girl—Zara—doesn’t spare him a second glance. 

Off in the distance, Rowe laughs at some joke the foreman’s just made, and Kleiman gestures grandly to the sky. Yuri hopes they both choke on their own vomit and die. 

_I could take you for everything you love_ , he thinks with an alarming clarity. Kleiman has taxes going in and out, funds to funnel into his coffers, and Yuri hasn’t burned his contacts within the city mob. His boys from Arianrhod could use an easy target. Hitting Rowe, that would be rewarding too. But you don’t shit where you eat. Rowe’ll just have to wait. 

Getting the money back to the people they took it from, that would be harder. Almost impossible, but Yuri will still try given half the chance. 

“Don’t think I didn’t see you there.”

How the fuck does a man Gwendal’s size keep getting the drop on him? Yuri really will wind up dead sooner rather than later, with him as an opponent. 

No time to be cute about it now. “What are you going to do about it?” Yuri asks. 

Gwendal shrugs. “No harm in you being friendly,” he says. 

Did he really miss the knife? Or is he lying? Yuri didn’t think him capable of plausible deniability, but what does he know? He sure as fuck ain’t gonna check. 

“I’ve a daughter her age,” Gwendal says to the sweltering air. 

“A daughter _my_ age,” Yuri can’t resist adding. Can’t resist sticking the knife in. He’s heard Gwendal’s famed temper flare the last time the Gautier kid came sniffing around his precious Corrine. 

Gwendal glares daggers at him. “I’ll tan your hide if you bother her, boy.” 

“I’m not the Rowe you should worry about,” Yuri tells him, chilly and flat. 

“Watch your tongue,” Gwendal snaps. Right. No badmouthing the precious lord. Decent enough advice when he’s in earshot. 

What would Gwendal do, Yuri wonders, if Rowe set his eye on the girl? Would he turn on his master at last to protect her, shattering the rigid pillar of pride on which he stands? Or would he grit his teeth and sell his soul instead? Except it wouldn’t be _his_ soul on the market, now would it? 

There’s been some talk of an early engagement to Lord Gideon’s son, to the east. Hell, _Gautier_ would more than do, if he got her out from under Rowe’s thumb, save that Gautier doesn’t commit, and a knight, however famed, can’t exactly compel one of the richest families in Faerghus. 

Gwendal says no more on the subject. Soon enough it will be time to go home and forget everything they saw here. But home is far away, and Yuri’s memory proves long. 

***

“What was Gwendal doing fighting for Rowe?” Felix asks while they break to catch their breath. 

“Couldn’t leave,” Yuri says. “Not with his damnable honor on the line.” He spits out the word like chewed up garbage. “Haven’t you heard? Where the lord goes, so does the knight.” 

Felix’s lip curls in a snarl. “It’s idiocy,” he says. 

Yuri leans back against the wall. “What, you mean dying senselessly for an Imperial cocksucker?” His throat tightens. “Not even a—” He cuts off his own sentence. “Fuck, you know what? It doesn’t _matter_ what a shitstain his boss is. Even for a great cause, it would be a stupid way to die.” 

Gwendal had known he was outmatched. Yuri could see it in the emptiness of the old man’s eyes. Didn’t even bother trying to pull some tricks out of his ass. He’d already chosen Aillel as his dying ground long before he spied Yuri on the other side. 

Better to die than keep licking Rowe’s boots. Yuri can almost relate. 

Except Yuri didn’t die. He ran instead. To Adrestia, which honestly might have been worse. To Garreg Mach. To Abyss. 

And running’s not something Gwendal ever had in him. 

Felix is looking at him, amber eyes wide and vulnerable. “No one’s…” He swallows. “No one’s ever said that to me before. I keep _trying_ to tell them how useless it all is, but it’s always just me.”

Could be because Felix is kind of a dick, to be perfectly honest. He’s got a way of saying things in the worst way possible, even if they’re true. Fortunately Yuri’s got a soft spot for assholes who are shit at life. 

Could also be a Faerghus thing, admittedly. Rumors of their dear homeland’s chivalry boner have not been greatly exaggerated. ‘I’ll die for you’ is how a Faerghan says ‘I love you.’ 

“Fucking Faerghus,” Yuri says with all finality, and Felix lets out a shaky bark of a laugh. 

“Wanna go again?” he asks, softer this time, almost like Yuri’s someone he could give a shit about. 

***

Duscur rebels in the fall. Rowe sends a battalion of knights to help put down the fighting, with Gwendal leading it. He doesn’t exactly return covered in blood—too much distance between the territories for that—but it stains his hands anyhow, showing in his craggy face and heavy step. 

“I didn’t see her there,” he tells Yuri. “Your girl. The one you…” 

Her name is Zara, Yuri thinks. Even if he knows nothing else about her, the name still _matters_. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he says.

She’s probably dead anyway, with her guts on the ground or rock dust in her lungs, doesn’t matter which. He wonders if she fought with the knife he gave her and cursed him once again for the pittance. He hopes she just stabbed a guard and ran. 

The way things are now, she won’t be able to stop running. Duscuri means no shelter in sight. Not in Fodlan. 

_I’ll carve out that place_ , Yuri thinks. Someday. _No one else is gonna do it, so I will. Somewhere safe, no matter who you are. Foreigner, beggar, whore. You’re trash like me, so you’re mine._

 _Doesn’t mean I own you. Doesn’t mean you owe me a thing. You’re mine to protect, that’s all._

Not that it will help this particular girl. Or the rebels with their blood on Gwendal’s conscience. Or Yuri himself, as he is right now. 

“You could have refused,” he tells Gwendal. 

Gwendal looks him square in the eye. “Could I, lad?”

“Would he have killed you?”

“There are worse things,” Gwendal says, quiet. “Ask me again, when you’re Count, and it’s your signet on my orders.” 

And that’s the bitch of it. They’ve all got something they clutch to their hearts, fiercer than life. The world will claim they’ve all got choices, even if they’re bad ones. Gwendal could break with Rowe and lose his station. Zara might have fought, or run, or hunkered down and stayed. 

Yuri knows. He’s done some choosing of his own. Sure, he could have ignored the way Rowe looked at him. Played the innocent far harder than he did. Until Rowe got sick of the chase and took what he wanted anyway, leaving Yuri with no leverage, no way to ever move against him. Better to play the white side of the chess board, make the first move, lie to yourself and say you’re winning. 

“Can you live with it?” he asks, and doesn’t get an answer.

***

It’s been almost ten years. Gwendal’s daughter is married now, safe from interference. His wife was dead long before Yuri met him. No family to look after, no one to account for, save his own conscience. 

He made his choice back in Aillel, and now Yuri is here. He’ll never say he killed an innocent man, or even a truly good one. But ‘decent’ suits him well enough. A man who wouldn’t report a starving girl for a hidden weapon, but who’d ride to put down a slave rebellion. Who knew about him and Rowe and didn’t think less of him for it—and who didn’t do anything to stop it. 

There’s a whole lot Yuri could say to him right now. Most of it filthy, some of it sodden with drink. None of it of any consequence with the man dead on the point of Yuri’s sword. 

All he’s got for a sounding board now is Felix Fraldarius, a fitting punishment for his sins. Oddly, the way Felix never meets his eye helps. Yuri doesn’t have to face him either this way, even as they clash, or rest, or rise to clash again. 

“I hate that he’s dead,” Yuri says, thick-voiced and hoarse, his throat gone dry. Gravel crackles under his boots as he parries Felix’s blow, then another swift on its heels. 

“You mean that you killed him?” Felix asks, cutting low. 

He’s not wrong. Yuri might mourn if he heard Gwendal had fallen on some other battlefield, but it wouldn’t sear him like this, husk-hollow and sleepless. 

“It sucks,” Felix says. “What do you want me to say? That you did it for freedom? For your country? For Claude Fucking von Riegan, or the Professor?”

“I did it because he wanted me to,” Yuri says. “He was going to die. I knew I could make it quick.” 

“Idiot,” Felix says. “What a waste.” 

“Fuck you,” Yuri tells him, too tired to be angry. 

Felix looks away. “I’m sorry he made you do that. You deserved better.” 

“He didn’t make me do anything,” Yuri snaps. He sees an opening and he takes it, a touch to Felix’s shoulder. 

Felix steps back with a grunt, ceding the match. “Fine. He didn’t. I don’t know what kind of platitudes you want from me. You won’t get them.” 

Yuri shakes his head. “I’m not looking for anything. Except maybe a place to put the memories.” 

“Just make sure they’re yours,” Felix says. “Not what someone else tells you he was like.” 

Something heaves inside Yuri’s chest. Not a laugh, he’s pretty sure. “No chance of mistaking _that_ ,” he says. 

“Good.” Felix squints in the finally rising sun. He’s clearly out of words, and so is Yuri for a change. 

“One more round?” Yuri says. To clear the head and bid goodbye. 

Felix nods. “Before we move out.” The army treks toward Garreg Mach again today, leaving behind Aillel’s bloody firefield. 

_Don’t think of it as running_ , Yuri reminds himself. _Think of it as finally heading home._

Watch where you put your feet, says the old man in his memories, and Yuri straightens his spine, blows a lock of hair from his eyes, and readies the charge.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, to [Letterblade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade) for the beta! <3


End file.
